Breathe
by alllieee
Summary: Inhale. Exhale.
1. Part One

A/N: Another unfinished fic... thought I'd throw a little more on my plate :)

So this little ditty is ... how shall I say ... a little more scattered? Anyway, I know some people like to know what's going on and need a little guidance, while others prefer to leave it up to their imaginations. I figure in order to humor both camps, I'd leave my pseudo-summary/explanation at the bottom of the page. (Personally, I like to fend for myself, but whatever toasts your 'smallows.)

**Part One**

She hears her breath echo in her head, like surround sound speakers thrust into her ears.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The only other sounds she hears are the muted thud of her feet hitting the pavement and the rush of gravel splinters that spray behind her, kicked up unceremoniously and left dislodged. Displaced.

She seems to do that to gravel. To people. Displace them.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

_Whiz._

She smiles in spite of herself. That sound has always amused her. The sound of bullets nearly missing. Of death eluded. Of life unremitting. Perpetual.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Her grip tightens around the hard plastic disk that threatens to slip through her sweat-soaked palm. Another day, another kernel of information.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale.

…

It had been five years, seven months and eight days. Five years. Seven months. Eight days. Fiveyearssevenmonthseightdays. Three hours, seventeen minutes and some odd seconds. No one could be held accountable for seconds.

It was in seconds, however, that decisions were made. In seconds lives were changed.

In seconds. _Seconds_. That was where errors lay. Where missteps festered.

It had been in that second of pause, of hesitation, of her eyes meeting his. She should have just left.

In the end, she couldn't blame him. Her actions had been suspect. He hadn't known the truth. How could he have known the truth.

She hadn't told him.

…

She taps her fingers listlessly on the chipped Formica countertop as the background noise dims to a buzz. The sounds of dishes clinking, animal flesh sizzling, water bubbling and customers babbling are no longer distinctly separate entities. They have become one dull, irritating constant.

The all too familiar smell of grease and fat assaults her nose and the crinkling plastic breaks through the din. She throws a pair of wadded bills across the counter and grabs the bag, retreating swiftly out the door she had entered minutes ago.

She briefly scans the hallway before sliding the key into the lock and slipping quietly into the room.

He sits hunched over the table, staring intently at the monitor. His forehead wrinkles deepen as his fingers furiously type. The small drops of sweat shimmer as they roll carelessly down his brow, splashing silently across the keys. An empty water glass sits beside him, the ice long melted.

She slips off her shoes and crosses the room, her feet padding across the golden hued carpet. She feels the grime and filth between her toes, but prefers it to the alternative. Her concern for cleanliness left in year two.

As she passes the table she relinquishes the bag. He takes it and begins to sift absently through its contents, his eyes never leaving the screen.

She continues on course without so much as a word. Wrapping her fingers tightly around the handles, she jerks forcefully upward. The wood creaks and moans, eventually giving out to a nice, stilted glide. The air outside is not much cooler, but the illusion of circulation will help to some extent.

She turns her attention back toward the table.

_Did it work?_

This question, like so many before it, goes unasked.

Instead, she pulls out the neighboring chair and grabs the remaining Styrofoam container from the plastic bag. Upon popping it open, the heat is released and a thick coat of steam attaches itself to her skin. She wishes she had ordered a salad.

She fingers the food for a moment before closing the lid. She isn't hungry.

He eyes her pointedly.

She wordlessly opens the container and begins to eat. Bite after bite slides down her throat, tasteless. Textureless.

"We're closer," he says after a suffocating and indistinguishable amount of time.

_How much?_

She nods and rises from her seat, placing the now empty containers back in the bag. She walks to the door, slips on her shoes and silently exits, the crinkling of the bag her sole companion. She needs some air.

…

_"I should have told him."_

_"Don't do that. Don't second guess."_

_"I could have prevented this."_

_"No."_

_"It's all my fault."_

_"It's not."_

_"It is."_

_"We can do this all night."_

_"I should have told him. I should have told him a year ago."_

_"What you should have done was leave me there. Then this never would have been a problem."_

_"You shouldn't have come looking for me. You shouldn't have been there in the first place!"_

_"You shouldn't have tried to go alone!"_

_"You shouldn't have cared!"_

_"Go to hell!"_

_"Fuck you!"_

_Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._

_Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. _

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_"What are we going to do?"_

_"Run."_

_"Is that enough?"_

_"No."_

_Inhale. _

_Exhale._

_"Are you ready to do this alone?"_

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_"I'm ready to do this with you."_

…

She wakes in the night, a mangled ball of sweat and tension. A victim of her sepia dreams. The horrors of the night always exceed those of the day.

She takes comfort in that.

Wiping her tears on the damp cotton sheets, she breathes deeply to allay the shaking and settle her jittering nerves.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The days have been long. The nights longer. She struggles to isolate her memories, to pick her brain for pieces of the past. She longs to remember how things were before, but finds she cannot distinguish between the varying shades of gray.

The form beside her shifts restlessly, a low murmur escaping his lips. A guttural hiss, neither fear nor comfort. She wonders if he dreams in color.

Gently wrapping her arm around his ribs, she pulls herself in tightly. Her chest presses against his back. His skin sticks to hers. A thick and calming layer of sweat forms between them, raising the temperature concomitant with her level of comfort. She inhales his scent and puckers her lips, exhaling a cool stream of air across the nape of his neck.

His hand finds hers and squeezes.

……

_Summary -_

_The events in this fic started when __Sydney__ found Vaughn in The Enemy Walks In. When they have that little moment, and she asks him if he can get home... we start AU from there. Dixon saw them and reported to Sloane, forcing Syd and Vaughn to run for their lives._


	2. Part Two

Thanks for your reviews! Here's the next part:

**Part Two**

When it had been confirmed, they had run.

Unable to stay in one place but unable to leave, they had taken nothing. Earthly possessions were no longer their concern.

They had run - but not away.

Without resources the battle would slow immeasurably. But she promised herself it would continue.

Never one for giving up, she readied herself for the long road before her, pushing away thoughts of her present, thoughts of herself. She thought only of him. And of vengeance. Of a way out.

…

She turns the rusted knob, stopping the flow of water that pours tirelessly from the shower head. The glass slides along its predetermined path and she reaches for a towel, blotting at the drops that have settled on her skin. Her feet hit the cold, tile floor and she wraps herself in worn and threadbare fabric before opening the door.

Following on the heels of a wall of steam, she enters the room. She finds him at his usual place before the monitor, a crinkled paper bag beside him. He offers her a stale bagel and a mug of bitterly acidic coffee, his eyes never leaving the screen.

She can tell by his look that today will be uneventful. Today they will come no closer to accomplishing their goal.

She takes the mug and retreats to the bed, opting to pass on this morning's breakfast. As she climbs under the covers, she feels his pointed stare. It burns into her but has no effect. Chance, she finds, has determined that this time she'll not be provoked.

She'll let him win the next one.

The uneventful days are the hardest. On days like these she finds herself with too much time to think. She reflects on the time she has spent running. On the years she has spent fighting. On the people she has lost. On her dreams left unfulfilled.

_She sits on a wooden bench, the warm breeze caressing her bare legs beneath her lavender skirt. A basket rests beside her, full of cheeses and breads, fruits and sweets, juices and wine. Her eyes meet his across the way and he smiles. It spreads from his lips to his cheeks to his eyes and to hers. She smiles. He turns his attention back to the swing, where a small girl with brown hair and expressive green eyes giggles and grins as he pushes her back and forth, and back and forth. _

_A little brown-eyed boy tugs on her skirt and opens his arms, his tiny fingers spread wide and straight. She wraps him in her arms before rising from the bench, taking the boy and the basket to the soft wool blanket sprawled on the ground before them. _

_"Juice," says the boy and his mother complies, opening the basket and retrieving a cup, already filled to the brim with sweet apple cider. They sit on the ground as she unloads the basket, popping grapes in her mouth as she goes. The little girl's laughter becomes louder and louder as she runs full-tilt toward the blanket, her father close on her heels. _

She rubs her face with her hands, attempting physically to rid herself of such wistful thoughts. Her daydreams have always been the farthest from reality, leaving her with a different kind of pain. Another form of agony. Her nightmares leave her terrified, her fantasies leave her aching.

She gulps down the rest of the coffee before placing the mug on the table and removing herself from the bed. Her tired body yearns for rest, but she knows it will do no good. It hasn't for a long time.

She reaches for her suitcase, its contents shamefully inadequate. Years ago she had required costumes and characters. Rubber, leather, sequins and pearls. Now she requires anonymity and the cover of night. Now she only engages a few of her skills. She has learned that stealth is an adequate substitute for charm and sex appeal.

It was a missionless day, but she still finds herself wearing black. It seems her suitcase holds no other options. She wonders why she'd never noticed before. Perhaps it was fitting this way.

She sees him at the table, still struggling through the contents of the disk she obtained the day before. The decoding is still hard, though he's grown accustomed. He's faster every time. Finds more.

Still, she finds herself wishing she had Marshall's assistance.

…

_The smell of gasoline saturated the night air, the cool breeze attempting in vain to dilute it._

_He came toward her, outwardly stoic but inwardly dying. She knew because she was dying too. Slowly. Painfully. _

_The death tonight would not be completely counterfeit._

_After what seemed like hours, he broke the silence. "It's ready. Are you sure you want to do this?"_

_She nodded, unable to articulate the words. She didn't want to do this. She had to. There was no other way. They both knew it._

_He handed her the book of matches as their eyes met. Silently, she communicated what her heart was desperate to say. _

I'm sorry.

_His heart responded though his eyes. The only passage remaining open. _

It's not your fault.

You shouldn't be here.

Neither should you.

You don't have to do this.

Neither do you.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_She stepped closer to the car and struck a match._

_With a flick of her wrist her world erupted in flames._

…


	3. Part Three

Hey there... still working on this - don't let the lack of updates fool you. That goes for AQOF too, for those of you who're waiting. I'm not promising updates will be frequent, but I promise they will continue ;)

As far as understanding the plot goes, just hang in there. I know it's confusing, but it will (hopefully) continue to become more clear... but if you're looking for a clear and straightforward plot - you're reading the wrong fic! Lol... 

Enjoy! Let me know what you think J

**Part Three**

Inhale.

Crunch.

Exhale.

Crackle.

She is convinced she can hear the grass as it bends and breaks beneath her feet. She steps slowly and deliberately, careful to avoid such noises.

Her caution proves ineffective as the sounds echo ceaselessly in her head.

Inhale.

Crunch.

Exhale.

Crackle.

She attempts stealth and succeeds. The villains never hear the sounds that rattle in her mind.

The man stands with his back to her, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It appears his focus is dwindling. Too many hours on the job.

As she watches him fidget, she imagines the cold hard steel of the gun held tightly in her hand. Though she cannot feel it through her glove, the illusion strengthens her. She wills herself to steel. Cold. Hard. Unbending.

Closing her eyes, she pulls the trigger.

Sight is no longer a necessity. She knows she will hit her target.

The bullet pierces his skin, liberating a stream of sticky red. A breathy gasp escapes his lips and finds its way to her ears, trapping itself within the confines of her mind.

He crashes to the ground with an earsplitting thud as the final ounces of life melt from his body and seep into the earth below. She imagines his liberated soul. It's fidgeting.

Two years ago she stopped using tranq darts. Too expensive. The enemy's bullets are much more accessible.

Luckily, that was right around the time she stopped valuing life. Hers or theirs.

Somewhere in the mess she became a scavenger. A wild animal. A beast.

Removing the gun from her fallen foe, she holsters her own. Waste not, want not.

Two more men go down.

Two steps closer to tonight's goal.

…

_A memorial service was held. Or so she imagined. _

_They were long gone by the time the flames had died out._

_As they drove away from their lives, she wondered about the people she was leaving behind._

_Francie__ and Will would grieve. Perhaps they were the only ones who would. But they would soon learn to get by without her. Everyone moves on in time._

_Her father would harden again. His shell would simply thicken. What doesn't kill him makes him stronger. Makes him less human._

_Dixon__ would believe she died a traitor. He was a hero for turning her in. __Marshall__ would likely believe the same. _

_Perhaps that was the most tragic part. The smartest men she'd ever known had been duped._

_Sloane.__ Sloane would suffer like no one had suffered. She would see to that._

…

She wraps her fingers around the knob and turns it easily. Either they were expecting her, or never imagined she would come. Two distinctly different possibilities.

Prepared for either, she enters the room, moving like a whisper. A ghost.

The office is typically modern. The hum of the florescent lights competes with the buzz of the monitor, aching to be silenced.

She needs not disturb her surroundings. The file sits patiently upon the desk. She slips it into her bag and turns to leave.

As she nears the door, she stops and turns back. Though the cry of a human has little effect, she finds it hard to refuse the pleas of inanimate objects. With the butt of her gun she smashes the screen.

She leaves the way she came, sidestepping the bodies she has relieved of the burden of living.

Her gun is down at her side. She knows she cleared her path well.

Too late she remembers she knows nothing.

An ambitious guard comes early for his shift and finds her path of destruction.

The metal lodges in her shoulder with a burning thud. She feels the sound echo through her body. The sensation is not of pain, but pressure.

She hears the blood ooze out the newly formed outlet, like water trickling down a window pane.

Inhale.

Drip.

Exhale.

Drop.

The pattern calms her. The cacophony awakens her senses.

Contrasting feelings of pressure and release begin to overwhelm her.

She smiles, content to be feeling.

Her reverie is broken by the shrill sound of her name.

Blinking, she clears the film that has formed over her eyes, revealing the offending guard lying in a pool of his own blood.

A hand is on her arm.

Another day of living.

…

_She opens the door and a sea of yellow washes over her. Mustard yellow. Dirty yellow._

_The carpet, the bedding, the curtains.__ The stench._

_She feels a rush of nausea but manages to abate it._

_"I think we'll need an air freshener," he attempts to smile._

_She laughs quietly and emptily. _

_Finding her feet, she walks to the bed and perches on the end. She looks at the closet._

_The realization that she has no possessions restores the unsettled feeling._

_He crosses the room, his face a mix of determination and despair. He settles beside her._

_"I'll sleep on the floor," he says after a moment._

_She eyes him wearily, and shakes her head._

_"We're in this together."_


	4. Part Four

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Running. She's running again. She always seems to be running.

It's a wonder that in all the years she's spent on the run she's never actually moved forward. Staying in one place but constantly in motion. Almost like someone on a treadmill. But even more bland. The mental image produced by this combination of words is one of warm, pink flesh and thick, steamy sweat.

Her life has been anything but that.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Her ears are filled with the echoes of two pair of feet, of earth being tamped. And the odd splash.

Not the same old run.

This time things are livened up a bit. Gushing blood tends to add spice to any event. It's been the seasoning of too many of her days, however, and she finds the taste has become lackluster.

She imagines how to make blood more exciting. How to make it mean something again. Perhaps if it were his.

Perhaps.

The blood drips from her shoulder and rolls down her bare arm, darkening the skin along its path. Just beyond the wrist the trail forks and the crimson drops begin to tangle with her fingers, tracing a web-like pattern.

It does have some aesthetic value, she muses. Maybe in her next life she will be an artist. Her paintings will be variations on rivers of red. Modern art. No one will understand it… not even her. But her soul will one day speak freely though paint.

In this life it speaks through blood.

He pulls her forward out of her reverie and into the awaiting vehicle. It's an old black van. Of course, it's black.

Black or red.

Nothing is white.

…

_He's on the other side of the door. She knows it. That's where he was when she left, and that's where he will be when she comes back._

_She just can't bring herself to do it._

_Her hand rests on the doorknob, and though her mind is telling the muscles to turn it – nothing happens._

_Mentally she battles with herself. She knows she should just go in. She'll have to go in eventually._

_Her fingers twitch with indecision. She can't help but listen as the flesh of her fingertips rattles against the cool metal knob._

_She wills them to stop before he hears. _

_Just a few more minutes of peace before all hell breaks loose._

_Inhale._

_Rattle._

_Exhale._

_Rattle._

_She silences her fingers the only way she knows how._

_Gripping the handle firmly, she twists the knob and pushes herself into the room._

_As her eyes look up from her hand and into the room her feet suddenly cease to move. The unexpected halting of movement throws her balance and she grasps the handle more tightly in an attempt to steady herself._

_For a year and a half she has walked this room, lived this room – breathed this room. Never has it smelled this sweet._

_Her eyes are swollen with the soft amber glow of candlelight, and her skin quickly warms to accompany the color._

_A red tablecloth separates their old worn table and the feast set before her._

_He uncorks a bottle of merlot and begins to pour._

_As she watches the red liquid bubble and gurgle, the smell of the food fades away and her senses begin to dull. Soon her world consists only of the sound of rippling liquid as it fills up her glass._

_And suddenly she can't breathe._

…

His hands aren't the hands of a doctor, but they will suffice.

As he threads the needle through her broken flesh she thinks of the many ways this man had touched her.

His hands have brought her comfort in a time of loneliness. Pleasure in a world of pain. And now with the same simple motion used to patch a piece of fabric, his hands were mending her wound. Attempting once more to put the shattered pieces back in their rightful order.

Stitching her body together as her mind slowly unraveled.

She just hoped the adhesive would hold.

Here they were, five and a half years later, and finally on the verge of something real.

It was as if she had passed away that night amongst the flames. But her soul, unable to escape, was left bound to the earth. Stuck in some hellish limbo until her task is complete.

Soon.

Soon she will finish what she has started. She will release the indestructible grip fate has locked on her mortal coil.

This broken, battered, bruised, torn, useless piece of flesh.

In her mind she pictures flesh without bones. It's an image rarely conjured. Typically, the bones are left fleshless - and rightly so. They're capable of standing on their own. But isolated flesh. Skin without skeleton or muscle or soul – it isn't right. It's illogical. Inconceivable.

It's her.

…

_"Are you sure you're alright?"_

_"Yeah, I'm fine… just a little lightheaded."_

_He brushes the strands of hair from her face and places a soft kiss on her forehead._

_"Good. Then come over here and have that glass of wine while I reheat the food."_

_He walks to the kitchen and turns on the oven before heading to the table to retrieve the plates. _

_She makes no effort to remove herself from bed._

_"Are you sure you're alright?"_

_She nods halfheartedly before managing to speak._

_"Thank you for tonight."_

_"You're welcome. Now why don't you come in here and enjoy it."_

_She wishes she could go and join him, to experience this romantic surprise she's dreamed about for years. But there are other things weighing too heavily._

_Seeing her intention of staying where she lay, he abandons the plates and returns to her side._

_"Something's wrong."_

_"…I suppose."_

_"What can I do? I'm here for you… you know that. Please, just tell me."_

_She looks into his eyes. She is searching for something… strength, guidance, support… answers…_

_"Will we be alright?"_

_He picks up her hand and places it in his, squeezing with a reassuring pressure._

_"We've got each other, don't we?"_

_"Yes, but we've always had that."_

_"So what's changed?"_

_"It's not just us."_

_"I'm not sure I…"_

_She tore her eyes from his._

_"I'm pregnant."_


	5. Part Five

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish.

The echo of the water as it slams into the porcelain reaches her across the great expanse of mustard yellow. Each drop that lands chips away at her sanity.

Perhaps if it were rhythmic she wouldn't be so irritated.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

Splish splash splish.

Inhale.

Splash splish.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Splash.

Exhale.

The water never seems to stop. She can think of nothing as tediously unrelenting as a dripping faucet. Something about its composition must make it so painfully persistent – but she can't imagine what. What drives something to push forward?

The drop forms at the tip of the rusted metal spout. Time is not on his side, however… it's only a matter of seconds before the next drop hurls itself down the pipe and threatens to overtake the first. The next drop may land somewhere else, or it may just pass him by. But he can't take any chances. The utter horror of the third possibility is what causes him to plummet – to leap into oblivion. If he didn't… he would lose himself. If he allowed the next drop to collide – to merge into one – he would no longer exist. And that is a risk no drop can take.

Splish splash splish.

Three heroic drops launch themselves forward. They don't know how it will end… but they know it's worth the risk. They know what lies behind them, and they're certain that's not where they long to be.

Splash.

She wishes they would stop. Perhaps if they realized the only thing that lay ahead was another pipe. Another dark tunnel. Another ill-advised leap.

Turning on her side, she finds herself face to face with a digital display.

3:27

It seems the only thing as persistent as a leaky faucet is the passage of time.

She carefully removes the blanket and slips silently out of bed. She doesn't want to disturb him. Though she doubts any noise on her part will. If he can sleep through the pounding of water as it smashes into the tub – he can sleep through the next world war.

Padding stealthily to the bathroom she surveys her options.

Logic.

She can reason with them. Convince the drops that there is nothing to jump for. Nothing beneficial about moving forward. No hope for a future any different than their current, daily droll.

But then, when has water ever responded to a rational plea?

The second option seems more likely.

Clamping her fingers tightly around the chilled metal knob, she twists it clockwise. The knob resists.

Of course it does.

She wraps her left hand around the remaining exposed metal and leans forward before turning the knob with all the strength she can muster. It remains unresponsive. The only thing that appears to budge is the skin of her palm as it rips and burns.

The screams of the drops increase in volume, only to be outdone by the thud as they sprawl helplessly on final contact.

Releasing her death grip on the knob, she retreats into the sink. She runs the flushed pink flesh of her hand under the cool water before reaching for a towel. As it absorbs the moisture from her hands, a solution presents itself.

Throwing the towel beneath the spout of the tub, she finds herself uncharacteristically pleased. It may not silence the screams… but it will soften the impact.

One step at a time.

""

_She begins at the bathroom door._

_Turn right and walk three steps._

_Pass the closet._

_Around the end table._

_Around the bed._

_Turn left and hug the wall._

_Pass by the window._

_Follow the divider._

_Right into the kitchen._

_Along the cupboards._

_Pass the stove._

_The refrigerator._

_The door._

_The table._

_Left._

_Hug._

_Left._

_She's at the bathroom door again._

_Turn right and walk three steps._

_Pass the closet._

_Around the end table._

_"Are you going to move for seven months?"_

_She halts beside the bed, turning to face him._

_Within an instant of stopping she itches to move._

_It takes all the restraint she can muster, but she manages to channel her energy into one tapping foot._

_Up, down. Up, down. Up, down._

_He sees the tension and pain overwhelm her face and aches to take back his outburst._

_"I'm sorry. It's just…" he sets down his book and eases himself to the end of the bed. Taking her hand in his he continues, "you haven't stopped moving in two weeks. When you're not wearing a hole in the carpet you're twitching or tapping or wiggling." He sighs heavily and trails his free hand through his hair, leaving chaos in its wake. "I'm just worried about you."_

_She sees the wrinkles in his forehead and the pain in his eyes._

_She takes a deep breath._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Her foot shakes as she wills it to stop tapping. Like a tuning fork coming to a stop as the pitch slowly dies. _

_Once it's sufficiently stilled she climbs onto the bed and crawls toward the pillow._

_He scoots his back against the headboard and opens his arms to her._

_She curls up safely in his embrace. The only movement she allows is the rising and falling of her head as it rests on his chest._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_"Do you want to talk about it?"_

_The question hangs in the air as he awaits a response._

_If she responded she would tell him she can't stop moving. When she stops moving her body, her mind will twitch freely. The thoughts will unleash themselves in her head._

_If she stopped moving she'd be left with nothing to do but think. She doesn't want to think._

_If she were to think she'd wonder what will happen to this baby. Wonder what kind of a life it has a chance of living. Wonder if it can exist in a world so full of pain. Wonder if it will ever, _ever_ stand a chance at happiness._

_If she responded she would tell him when she stops moving the world stops turning._

_If she responded._

""

Ding.

Tap.

Crunch.

Inhale.

Buzz.

Squeak.

Crackle.

Thump.

Exhale.

Whir.

Inhale.

Crack.

Exhale.

Squeak.

Inhale.

Thump.

Exhale.

Tap.

Inhale.

Whir.

Inhale.

Chatter.

Inhale.

Buzz.

Inhale.

"Ma'am?"

Inhale.

"Ma'am are you alright?"

She grasps her forehead with her hand and squeezes her eyes shut tightly in an effort to block out her surroundings.

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"

Inhale.

Squeakthumpcrackwhirwhizbuzzding… she manages to mute it into a single all encompassing sound.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She waits a handful of seconds before risking opening her eyes. The ringing in her ears causes her eyes to squint and burn as if she were staring directly at the sun.

As her vision becomes more acute she finds herself face to face with a teenage boy in a bright red apron. The name "Roy's" is scrawled across it in dingy white lettering. His nametag informs her she is being accosted by Sam.

"I'm fine," she spits out, unable to feign a pleasant demeanor.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down Ma'am? You look a little pale and you haven't moved for a good fifteen minutes."

He speaks to her as if she were grasping her last tether of sanity. Slowly. Softly.

She feels like the main attraction of some odd side show. Caged. Under the white spotlight. A microphone is pressed to her head and the loudspeakers echo the sounds that blast inside her mind. The people stare in awe and wonder, with more than a large dose of pity. They shake their heads and carry on their way, stopping to see the lesser exhibits before continuing on with their normal lives.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She doesn't realize she hasn't responded until he hits her with another question.

"Well, if you don't want to sit down – is there something I can help you find?"

The Sound takes over her brain and she struggles to sort out his words. Once she narrows it down to a coherent question she manages a response. She forms the word as a toddler struggling to speak her desire.

"Crackers."

He looks at her with wide eyes. Big blue innocent eyes.

"Crackers Ma'am?"

"Yes. I need to find the crackers."

"They're… uh… they're right here. You're looking at them."

The teenager is right. She's standing directly across from a wall of cracker boxes.

She drops her hand from her head and attempts to regain composure.

"Thank you."

Sam wanders slowly down the aisle and toward the checkout counters. He glances back before turning the corner. Perhaps to assure himself it's safe to leave her alone. That she hasn't toppled over yet.

She faces the wall of crackers alone.

Hundreds of boxes sit before her. Red ones. Blue. Yellow. Big. Small. Salted. Unsalted. Baked. Fried. Round. Square. Flavored. Plain.

As she wades through her options she begins to lose the hold she has on the sounds in her head. The muted chorus begins to break apart… the sounds isolating themselves from one another. Competing in volume.

With her tenuous hold intact she grabs the closest box of crackers, throws it into her cart and lurches forward.

Squeak.

Inhale.

Rattle.

Exhale.

She makes her way to the checkout stand.

""

_It isn't until well into the process that she is struck with how utterly cliché and domestic it is._

_His sits across from her, flanked by an empty cardboard box and a plastic bag of nuts and bolts._

_Between them stands the skeleton of a crib in a state of disarray._

_In her hands she holds the instructions, unfolded like a map before her. Crisp white against a background of stale yellow._

_As she reads over the contents she finds herself saying things like, "Attach side B to part F using four one and a half inch screws."_

_Somehow, when she used to picture this moment it was completely different…_

After tightening the final screw he helps her to her feet. He had tried to insist she sit comfortably in the plush armchair, sipping on the lemonade he had made that morning from their budding young tree… but it was only halfhearted. He knows her too well to believe for an instant she will sit back and watch while tasks are carried out. She prefers to have a hand in everything – to add her blood, sweat and tears into the final product. Though she has to admit the lemonade is beginning to sound like a wonderful idea.

He pulls her back into his chest as they admire their handiwork. The crib is now pressed flush against the pale blue wall, the top just inches below the hand-stenciled balloons they had painted the day before. A warm breeze comes though the open window, causing the sheer white fabric to dance along the sill.

His lips brush her ear, immediately causing the goosebumps on her neck to rise.

"I love you," he whispers as he grasps her hand tightly. "I love you so much."

"And you," he says as he turns her around and crouches to meet her stomach, "you are going to be so loved you just won't be able to handle it!"

She smiles as he rubs her swollen stomach and continues to speak.

"You are going to be the luckiest little person to come into the world. Do you want to know why?"

He places his ear to her stomach as if awaiting a reply. After a moment he appears satisfied with the response.

"Because this woman," he stands to face her, "is the most amazing woman to ever grace the earth with her presence… and she is your mother."

A single tear rolls down her cheek and she can't contain the grin that washes over her face, "And your dad isn't half bad either."

Her stomach jerks in response and her eyes open wide.

He sees the expression of surprise and becomes immediately concerned. "What's the matter? Are you feeling alright?"

She takes his hand and presses it gently on her stomach and places her finger to her lips to signal his silence.

They wait for a few seconds before her stomach comes alive again.

"It's kicking."

_"What?" he asks as he sets down the screwdriver and inches toward where she sits._

_"It's kicking," she says in full voice, a smile creeping across her lips._

_He meets her eyes and silently asks permission. She nods to grant it and he rests his hand atop her bulging belly. It connects just in time to feel the pressure of a tiny foot against his palm._

_"It's kicking," he echoes in wonder._


	6. Part Six

Of all the sounds she has ever encountered, none are as sweet as the one she hears when he slips into the room.

"Got it."

The moment the waves from his mouth find their way to her ears, her body erupts in activity.

Her heart rate quickens. Her pulse pounds. Her skin flushes. Her breathing accelerates.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Years – a lifetime – she has waited for this moment. The moment her goal is realized. The moment her soul is put to rest.

The bricks she has stored on her chest slowly fall. One by one, crashing into the thick embrace of the carpet. Landing soundlessly.

She sheds pounds and pounds of baggage. Of agony. Of torment.

Her tongue tingles with the faint prickle of a sensation she had long since lost…

She can _taste_ her freedom.

""

_She sits motionless on the foot of the bed as he toils tirelessly in the kitchen._

_The twitching stopped a few months back._

_Around the time it stopped silencing her mind._

_She knows he takes it as a sign she is improving. He believes that with the stilling of her body came the settling of her thoughts. _

_She can't bring herself to puncture the frail film of his reality by burdening him with the truth._

_At least one of them can live the illusion of … not happiness. He, too, is far from happy. Perhaps his illusion is of hope._

_Regardless, she knows it is merely a delusion._

_It's the wrong place. The wrong time. The wrong life._

_Happiness is not an option._

_She takes comfort in the fact that she has acknowledged the truth. It may be harsh – but it's a reality. _

_Something tangible._

""

They have it.

Evidence.

Information.

Knowledge.

All the pieces of the puzzle have finally been collected, analyzed and assembled.

Everything has been building up to this.

Contact and execution.

The second step.

The only black cloud on this seemingly sunny day is the realization that this one may be even more painful than the last.

""

_"It's going to be a girl," he says with a smile as he transfers her meal from the pan onto her plate. "I can feel it."_

_She forces a smile._

_He continues the one-sided conversation… a necessity as of late._

_"I can see her now – a dimpled little brunette with big brown eyes. She'll look just like you."_

_Her eyes fall onto the lifeless hunk of meat that lies steaming before her. She presses her fork into the severed flesh and watches as the juice oozes from its pores. _

_She's not sure when he became an optimist. Or even if the transformation is permanent. She's inclined to believe this is some front he's putting on for her sake – for the sake of the child. _

_It's not him._

_It's the plastic shell he's created. _

_As she slices through the meat with her knife she imagines the blade piercing his façade. She imagines the resistance as the dull metal saws through the hard plastic coating. Ineffectively ripping and tearing._

_If only she could free him of this encasement. Then they would be together. _

_Raw. _

_Pink. _

_Bleeding._

_Instead he parades around like some toy egg recently plucked from a twenty-five cent machine. Brightly colored and insanely unrealistic._

_He continues talk about the beautiful daughter they will have._

_She prefers not to imagine such things._

_A brand new soul to be warped and twisted by the suffocation that is life._

_A miniature version of her._

_Suffering._

""

They watch from afar as the man sits on an old wooden bench on the outskirts of the park. He rests his weight on his elbow as he leans forward slightly, head in hands.

He is not the same man he was five years ago. His complexion has paled and his smile has waned. It spreads across his face but barely manages to spark the light in this man's eyes.

She feels him beside her and knows he feels the pull of responsibility tug at his heart. But he is no more responsible than she is. They cannot be held to blame for the darkening of the world. They cannot be charged for playing the cards they were dealt.

The object of their attention shifts before relinquishing his space on the bench and approaching the nearby swing set.

A little girl, no more than three, looks to the man with pleading eyes. He complies with her unvoiced request and lifts her small body into the empty seat.

As he gently pushes her, the light in his eyes burns brighter and the smile on his face becomes more genuine.

The giggles from the little girl echo across the park, landing full force on her ears.

The sound seems to travel through her head and straight to her heart. Swarming it. Strangling it.

She gasps involuntarily.

He places his hand upon her back and traces soft circles in an attempt to settle her pain.

She pulls herself together in an attempt to settle his.

""

_Pain is something she has grown accustom to. A part of her life so common and familiar that many times she fails even to acknowledge it._

_But not every time._

_It begins as a dull pounding in her midsection._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_It sharpens exponentially._

_The hair rises on her arms in response to the sensation she can only describe as agony._

_Bile rises in her throat, stifling her cry._

""

They follow at a distance as the man returns home with the child, waiting patiently in the shadows until she's safely tucked in bed.

After descending the stairs he turns straight for the kitchen and retrieves a bottle from the refrigerator. From there the third party finds his way to the couch, sinking into the cushions as the colors from today's recap wash across his face.

She nods softly and the pair cautiously enters the room.


	7. Part Seven

**Part Seven**

As the man's eyes fall upon the ghostly forms before him, his face runs the gamut of emotions.

She is surprised to see that the first is fear. Terror, maybe. Horror more likely.

The next expression is confusion, followed by happiness entrenched in pain.

The tears gently roll down the man's cheek as the threesome stands like gawky teenagers at a high school dance. None wanting to make the first move – or knowing what it should be.

"You're not…" he chokes out as he wipes futilely at his eyes, "You never…"

She shakes her head.

"But why? And why have you…" he attempts again to finish a sentence but continues to fall short. His meaning is not lost, however.

"Eric, it was our only option. Sloane was going to have us killed – you know that."

"And I thought he had succeeded! Mike, all these years you were alive and you couldn't even…"

"No," she cuts in with surprising volume and force, "don't finish that sentence. Don't second guess the choice we made. We've second guessed it enough."

The two men look at her, befuddled by the vigor emanating from such a feeble form.

She feels their eyes burning.

She can hear their minds rumbling.

Many things could be said here… where they have been, why they have come. Millions of thoughts run through her head, fighting to be vocalized – but no words are formed.

"She's beautiful," Vaughn says at last. "How old is she?"

Weiss' proud eyes glitter as he responds, "She'll be three next month."

The thoughts that had previously whirled through her head seem to have vaporized. Her mind is a virtual vacuum. Empty… save one burning image.

A tear slides down her cheek – the sound drowned out by the hum of the television. The chalky texture of the human voice and electronic static.

Hum.

_"… tonight at Wrigley Field the Cubs moved one step closer to…"_

Buzz.

"… tell me about her. Where did you…"

Inhale.

Exhale.

_"… with a single to lead off the third…"_

Buzz.

"… long story but I promise…"

Hum.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"… her mother and I…"

Hum.

_"… tight in the top of the sixth with two men on and no…"_

Buzz.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

"… what I wanted, but now that she's here I can't even imagine…"

Buzz.

Buzz.

Inhale.

_"… came in to relieve the weary but still dominant…"_

Hum.

"… happiest I've ever been."

Exhale.

Buzz.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"What's her name?" she barely coughs out, hoping she managed interest without any semblance of pain.

"Sonia … Syd, are you okay?" he reaches for her arm in an attempt to stabilize her shaking form. Her halfhearted attempt at concealment is readily transparent.

Vaughn guides her to the couch just moments before the shaking begins.

Sirens wail outside the house and scream inside her head. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, but nothing stills her body nor silences her mind.

But after these long years they've grown accustomed to it.

He slips into the kitchen and returns with a glass of cold water to cool her nerves and give her something to focus on.

""

_Burning._

_Something is burning._

_Her body is on fire… if only she could open her eyes she would see flames erupting from her skin. Singeing her flesh, melting her._

_Her stomach clenches and clenches again._

_And again._

_No release._

_Inhale._

_Inhale._

_Screaming._

_She's screaming._

_At least – she's trying to scream._

_But somehow she can't hear it._

_It's as if her ears are turned off. There's no sound. _

_Not the dull hum of the lights she can see illuminating the room behind her eyelids. Not the trickle of the sweat as it seeps out her pores. Not the shriek that pries itself from her lungs._

_Nothing._

_Perhaps this is the sound of everything._

_Everything all at once._

_Inhale._

""

She watches from a distance as the men in black assemble outside the building that was once so familiar.

It's the middle of the day – as good a time as any for a takedown. Or so the person who planned this operation must think. An entire team of CIA agents packed conspicuously against the side of a bank in downtown Los Angeles.

She would have done it under the cover of night.

But she's not in charge.

People on the sidewalks gape and gawk. Regular people in their regular clothes. On lunch break from their regular jobs. They just happened to be passing. Just happened to bear witness as the takedown she has spent nearly six years facilitating finally manifests itself.

There they stand. Perfect strangers with jaws ajar as they stare like they're at some sort of exhibit. Their heads bob back and forth as they follow the team's movements closely, necks straining to catch all they can before their amusement disappears out of sight.

Maybe a tennis match.

Orders are received and twelve masked figures proceed clumsily through the large glass doors, like elephants in combat boots. The pounding of their joint mass rattling the walls.

A zoo, perhaps.

She never imagined this day to transpire quite like this. The opposite, in fact.

She, the great Sydney Bristow, would be on the other side of the line, her hand wrapped firmly around a government issued automatic – the fire in her heart clearly visible in the depths of her eyes.

She can't count the number of times she imagined the shock on the bastard's face when she peeled off her black cotton mask… and the resulting elation.

The feeling of triumph, of victory.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Instead she stands in the shadows – indistinguishable from the bricks stacked beside her.

There is no fire.

No triumph.

No victory.

It's not her battle. The fight died long ago.

But this day is not without its reward.

There, between the cold, hard wall and the only person left in her life, she finds herself wrapped in a numbness long deserved.

Relief.

""

_The iron gates creak with age as she gently pushes through them. It's not a piercing sound, she notes. Softer, more calming. Peaceful, yet strong. She will remember it easily._

_The swish of the grass as it brushes the leather of her shoes. Like the sweeping of an old worn-out broom._

_Gravel crackles beneath her soles as she cuts across the path. Crunching – the harshest sound thus far._

_The almost silent whoosh of fresh dirt as it sinks under the weight of her body._

_The whisper of the wind.__ Steady, stout._

_The scratch of flesh against stone._

_The splash of a tear slamming into the cold embrace of polished marble._

_She stares at the letters._

_Remembering every curve._

_Every indentation._

_Every discoloration._

Hope

A breath of life

_She will remember._

_She will remember._

""

They escort him out, handcuffs behind his back, betrayal in his eyes.

He doesn't look her way.

He doesn't sense her there.

She watches as the van door slides closed – shutting out her past and opening up her future. The bright lights of the city shine before her, once again at her fingertips. She's not in limbo anymore.

It's the end now.

But not the ending they planned for.

He takes her hand and gently pulls her away from the scene. They've witnessed what they came for. Their task is complete. The blood they shed, the time they spent – it got the job done.

They're safe.

Stepping silently into an old worn sedan, she looks out onto the city and the life she once left behind – and knows she will never come home again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He slips his hand into hers and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He too knows that life is no longer here.

As he places the car in drive and turns toward the future she listens intently to the silence.

For in that silence lies the most precious thing she has lost.

_Creak._

Inhale.

_Swish._

Exhale.

_Crackle._

Inhale.

_Whoosh._

Exhale.

_Whisper._

Inhale.

_Scratch._

Exhale.

_Splash._

_Splash._

_Splash._

**The End**


End file.
